


Lemon Pie

by caitfair24



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff, Marriage, Mild Suggestiveness, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 16:13:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18898159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caitfair24/pseuds/caitfair24
Summary: A series of one-shots chronicling life for Bucky and Reader in post-war Brooklyn. Originally posted as one story called "'46."





	Lemon Pie

**Author's Note:**

> My submission for day 20 of @itsbuckysworld's Hello Spring 2019 Writing Challenge on Tumblr. The prompt was "favourite pie." Mrs Knox's Lemon Chiffon Pie was a real recipe, developed and advertised by Knox Gelatine.

A burnished September afternoon -- eager autumn sunlight dappling the patched sofa, spilling over onto the gleaming radio. It’s been a day of careless housework, of distraction. Time an accordion, compressing in the strangest of ways. Making the bed that morning, you can’t help but remember the first night together in it -- all fumbling, stumbling, shy laughter and stolen gasps. As you polish the radio and dust the bookshelves, you think of long winter evenings in the main room of the apartment, darkness stretching wide over the city outside, snow falling lightly, and the glow of his arms around you. Jazz dripping honey-sweet from the radio. You answer a few letters, entertain a few visitors, and your mind drifts instead to the secret pleasure of his unshaven cheek, the raw delight of a quiet night in, a mapping of souls and skin and a future held between the firm, sweaty braid of your entwined fingers. 

And now, something a little more innocent. You’d found the recipe a few weeks ago at his mother’s apartment, flipping through a housekeeping magazine rather distractedly as Mrs Barnes and his sister, Rebecca, traded some plans for an afternoon. The full-colour ad had your own mouth watering -- “ _Slice o’ Sunshine for Dessert!”_  -- and with a small flicker of domestic enthusiasm, you’d pointed it out. 

“Would he like this?” you’d asked shyly. Nearly a full year into marriage and you still feel uncertain at times. As though at any minute someone might set you an exam -- _The Care and Keeping of One James Barnes_  -- and you’d fail miserably. 

Yours had been a hasty hospital-camp courtship; a few films in London; wandering hands and breathless endearments. And then -- a ring. A promise. He’d come back to you from snow-capped peaks without his arm and spirit broken, sure you would need to leave him for another, whole man. But no, not you -- you’d kissed the scars and made him yours on a twin bed in your bare boardinghouse room. Claimed him too soon to wear a white dress without exchanging a mischievous smile at the altar. 

There were moments when you were sure. When you read a look in his eyes, or communicated with a touch. A language built just for the two of you, not set in stone but certainly not easily translated. Even Steve shakes his head. “Two years ago, you didn’t even know each other,” he’d laughed one night at dinner, as Bucky trailed one lingering touch up the back of your wrist, buying him a honeymoon blush. 

Making this damn pie, though, has you less sure. 

“ _Lemon chiffon”_ fits like a poem in your mouth, and you hope it will in his, too. But you aren’t ordinarily a baker -- meaning that Rebecca had had to come over at noon to help you assemble a crust. Fortunately, everything from that point on in the recipe simply involved mixing, stirring, and chilling. 

Sugar, water, eggs, corn syrup, and three squat lemons. A mixing bowl from your aunt and uncle; spoons that haven’t seen much more than the inside of the drawer. You shake the packet of Knox’s Gelatine, and then ensure your apron is tied securely about your waist -- a domestic arsenal and armament, of sorts. 

Next to you, in pride of place, you’ve set down the recipe, torn from Mrs Barnes’ magazine. It’s been folded and refolded several times over the past few weeks, hidden in your nightstand drawer. You want this to be a surprise for him, a real treat. A brand-new favourite, made by his wife. 

The past year had been busy: a new job, apartment, settling into the patterns of your own marriage. There were easy days, and longer ones. Silences that swelled and soured; arguments that burst from the mystery of moments lived before the other had come along. And then there were the good days. The best days. 

Sunday afternoons that stretched and curled into years. A trip to Coney Island, cotton candy on your lips and coins jangling proudly in his pocket; Bucky’s right arm slung over your shoulders. Evenings spent tangled in each other, loving slow and unembarrassed. 

You turn on some music, slip off your stockings as you stir and dance and sing along. Something new, _Five Minutes More_ , and Bucky knows all the words. Whispers them into the shell of your ear, as you dance after dinner. Calm threads through you as you ease more into the task, mixing sugar and lemon juice and eggs together. Over boiling water, you wait for it to turn to custard, your wrist growing tired as Sinatra fades away. 

“ _Marry me, doll_ ,” he’d said, all boyish want and soldierly desperation. Pressed close to your dancing dress, cotton turned silk under his touch, his gaze. Branding you anew with a wartime romance, a cinematic sort of affection, bolstered by risk and the tender threat of _just in case._ Just in case he didn’t come back, just in case you were transferred, just in case the world ended -- one more kiss, one more minute, one more chance. 

There’s a water-spot on the recipe, obscuring the next step. Something about the lemon, yes. Must be more juice? You squeeze out the second and third ones, wincing a little at the expense. Fresh fruit is a luxury, and while Bucky makes fairly good money, three lemons on a single pie means soup and toast for dinner. 

Bucky had been apologetic yesterday -- one of your lazy Sundays, still in bed by two o’clock. No fancy restaurants, no trips away. But that was fine, you’d reassured him between keen kisses. A young couple, married only a year, could hardly hope, on the average, for anything more than a quiet evening together. And besides -- and this was a whisper, a whisper that made the tips of his ears go pink and a chuckle rumble deep in his chest -- there were other ways you could spend your anniversary. 

Lemon rind. The grater ensures it comes off in tiny yellow flecks, but you know Bucky likes lemon --  his mother makes spectacular squares -- so you shave off a few larger pieces with a paring knife, and toss them into the mixture. 

The egg whites now. Beaten within an inch of their life. You pause and step away for a minute, wiping away a light sheen of perspiration. It’s nearly three-thirty -- time enough for the pie to chill and set before dinner. Time for you to change into something prettier than this housedress. 

A little more sugar, a few more attacks with your biggest spoon, and the creamy, pale yellow mix is complete. The scent of lemon rises sharply in your tiny kitchen as you pour everything into Rebecca’s pie crust, gliding in smoothly, sunnily. 

Just before serving, you’ll add a dollop of whipped cream, cutting Bucky -- cutting _your husband_  -- an ample slice. 

Magic. There’s magic in the word, in the phrase. For weeks after the barebones austerity wedding, you and Bucky had indulged in simpering reclamations, over and over again. “ _My wife”_ this and “ _my husband”_ that. Even now, you let the word slide from your lips at the oddest moments. Volunteering Bucky’s opinions or anecdotes when nobody had asked, just to savour the taste of his commitment. Of your love. 

Carefully, you nestle the pie inside the ancient Monitor-Top refrigerator inherited from Bucky’s cousin, who now has an office job in Manhattan and was able to afford one of those new Freon ones. 

And isn’t he smug about it? 

Still -- he doesn’t have this. He doesn’t have this cramped apartment, a fire-escape for a backyard. A toilet that never flushes without some great ceremony; water stains spilling down the living room wall. 

And _this_. 

A summertime dress, out of season in the approaching fall, but it was Bucky’s favourite. An unspoken “ _I love you,_ ” floating merrily about your knees. Earrings he’d bought you in London, two little clusters of blue beads. Secondhand gold winking on your left hand. 

And a smile so big it hurt stretching wide across your face. Heartbeat quickening with the sound of his boots at the door. 

“You’re home early!” 

Bucky smells of the shop, oil and grease and cigarette smoke, but you hug him anyway, letting his flesh hand settle at the small of your back as his prosthesis stays behind his own. 

He kisses you soundly, a kiss perhaps more sensibly suited to a separation longer than seven hours, but then he presses a “ _doll”_ against your lips and it all makes sense. Want is a headier scent now than lemon; the soup be damned. This is all that matters in the whole world. “Happy anniversary, Y/n,” he says softly. 

Three red roses peek out from a frothy nest of baby’s breath, and he flushes a little at the scant bouquet. “Sorry, I, uh, they...”

“They’re perfect,” you assure him warmly, practically burying your face in the spray. “I love them so much.” 

Coveralls pushed down to his waist, Bucky starts talking about a bath before dinner, but you can’t wait. Dessert first, you order. Fingers wrapped around the smooth curve of his new prosthetic arm, you guide him over to the kitchen table, disregarding the few spots on his white t-shirt where something from one of the cars or trucks has seeped through his coveralls. 

He pours out two glasses of milk and leans back in his chair, chatting a little about work, something Steve had said, a nice new Cadillac brought in that morning. Gossip about a few of the neighbours. 

The pie actually _looks_  delicious; you can’t believe it. And you’ve found the dream domestic loophole for subpar bakers -- no-bake desserts. The recipe even suggested using a crushed graham cracker crust -- a tip for next time. 

“Damn, baby doll,” Bucky groans as you cut him a plump slice. “That looks incredible. You gonna have a piece, too?” 

You’re not ready yet -- makeup not done and hair half-finished. Bucky protests, tries to wrap his arms around your waist and tug you down into lap, but you dodge him deftly, skirting into the bathroom with a wry smile and a wink in his direction. “Eat up, Sarge,” you coo. “I’ll be right back.” 

He’s just sampling his first forkful of Mrs Knox’s lemon chiffon pie -- no, you think, grinning at yourself in the mirror -- Mrs _Barnes’s_ lemon chiffon pie. 

A swipe of red lipstick, some colour rubbed into your cheeks. A light spritz of perfume. Some teasing curls and that fancy enamel pin Rebecca gave you for your birthday and -- done. Every inch the polished girl. Bucky’s girl. 

Bucky wears an eager beam, eyes roving your figure eagerly. You slide onto his lap, just where he likes you, and laugh at his empty plate. “You liked it, honey?” you ask, reaching for the whole pie, mouth watering at the prospect. “Was it any good?” 

“Delicious.” He stamps a kiss to your cheek. “My new favourite pie, baby. Thank you.” 

A warm glow settles over your skin, sparking here and there with the pattern of his kisses. “Hey, I was thinking, maybe we could --” 

Before he can finish, you twist in his arms, pressing your lips to his. “Have a bath?” 

Bucky laughs, head tipped back and eyes bright with joy. “Yeah, sounds good. Let’s just put the pie away and --” 

You steal the rest of his sentence with another kiss. “No, no. You have another piece, I’ll go run the tub. Get you some clean clothes, too. Here” -- and you cut another wedge, about the same size as the first -- “finish this first. Do you want more milk?” 

He shakes his head with a weak smile, fork gliding down through the second slice. In the bathroom, you shake your own head at the ridiculousness of climbing into the bathtub so soon after finishing your hair and makeup, but it _is_ a special day -- a day for love-drunk foolishness, and happily, that’s where you and Bucky seem to excel. 

The bathroom may be cramped, but the tub is sizeable enough. You lean over, checking the temperature with your fingers now and then -- setting out a bar of soap, some washcloths. A twinge of self-consciousness flutters in your stomach, across your skin -- dashed quickly by a creeping heat, dancing up your spine. 

You leave your shoes in the bedroom, kicking them towards the wardrobe as you return to the kitchen. 

Another empty plate sits in front of Bucky, rubbing his stomach, just a few smudges of lemon chiffon clinging to the middle of it; the fork, too. And there’s a bit lingering on his bottom lip. You kiss it away, face scrunching a little at the sudden rush of tartness. 

“What’s the matter?” he teases. “Am I too sour for you now?” 

With an affected sigh, you drop your head to his shoulder. “Well, it _has_  been a year. Maybe I’m just tired of you.” 

“I would be, too.” Bucky grins, squeezes your hand, stroking small circles onto your forearm. “When you get your new husband, promise to introduce me?”

You roll your eyes and reach over for the pie plate. “Hmm. I’ll be sure to do that. Now, hands to yourself, Barnes. I want a slice of this before we get in the bath.”  For a moment, you debate just eating out of the dish -- but raise the knife anyway, deciding that you might actually like to drop off a piece to your mother-in-law, show off a little. If there’s anything left -- with his two slices, Bucky’s already nearly eaten half the pie. 

Bucky’s hand snaps around your wrist again, tugging you away from the table as he stands. “Later, Y/n,” he says firmly. “Let’s just --” 

But the knife is already gliding through, and you dump your piece of pie rather clumsily onto Bucky’s plate. “Just a few bites,” you say, scraping some excess whipped cream onto your fork. “You go on ahead; I’ll be right in.” 

There’s something strange on the air now -- Bucky’s frozen by the bathroom door, rubbing at the back of his neck, then running one hand distractedly through his hair. “Uh, baby, hold on a second. Just, uh, just hear me out.” 

“What?” 

“I know you worked real --” 

_Ugh_. You let loose a small shriek as the first bite touches your tongue -- a sensation both sour and bitter exploding against your lips, and you drop the fork in shock. “Oh, _damn it_!” 

The pie isn’t awful. 

It’s _horrific_. 

The texture and crust are truly the only humane elements of the entire experience -- the fiery tartness of too many lemons sears your mouth, and you reach blindly for a napkin, a tablecloth, hell -- at this point, you’d spit it out onto the _good_  duvet. Bucky obliges with a tea-towel. 

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you look back up at him; his face is stricken, absolutely puddled with guilt. As though this is _his_  fault. “Oh, doll,” he says softly, pulling you into his embrace. You bury your face against his chest, disappointment thrumming in your limbs. “It’s fine, really.”

“You ate two slices, Bucky!” Your plaintive cry is muffled by his shirt. “Why didn’t you say something?”

He kisses the crown of your head once, twice, three times -- “Because I knew you must’ve worked hard on it, and I didn’t want to ruin our anniversary by spitting out your present, and I...” His voice trails off as he realizes you’re shaking against him, tears soaking his shirt. “Oh, baby, please don’t cry.” 

But you aren’t. 

Laughter bubbles up between you the moment he pulls back to look at your face, wipe away your tears. God, your cheeks are soaked with your own amused disgust, hands trembling against his shoulders, his jaw, anywhere you can find purchase. “I can’t believe you hate half this damn thing,” you gasp between giggles. “Oh, Bucky, I’m so sorry, I can’t believe I did that.” 

The kitchen is positively rosy with your mingled merriment now, stretched wide to accommodate the breadth of relief and happiness. Chuckling, he reaches for the recipe on the counter behind you, reading out each ingredient and step to you, and -- breathlessly now -- you either confirm or deny whether or not each was accomplished. 

The first problem? You’d failed to see the differentiation between sugar _or_  corn syrup, and had added both. 

The second revolved around lemons. Just a 1/2 cup of lemon juice was required -- but you’d given nearly double that, with the three rather plump lemons you’d squeezed dry into the mixture. 

And you’d then proceeded to add extra rind, not to mention a few chunks so big Bucky actually needed a toothpick to coax them from his mouth. 

“The whipped cream was great, though, Mrs Barnes,” he says, deftly unbuttoning your dress with one hand in the bathroom once the two of you had finally managed to calm down. “And the crust was damn good. And a damn relief, to be honest.” 

You turn to him, all soft seduction in lace and humour, makeup streaked and hair a mess. “The page was creased, and there was a little stain over one of the steps,” you pout. “Not really my fault. It was flimsy paper.” 

“Sure.” Bucky peels off his t-shirt, cursing when the hem catches on his prosthetic, which he then needs to remove, too. “Flimsy paper. That’s why you tried to poison your husband on your first wedding anniversary.” 

Another starburst of giggles, and then a splash. A splash that sends soapy water flooding over onto the bathroom floor, but neither of you care. Neither of you care, because you come to him in bubbles and the crisp, innocent scent of Ivory. Neither of you care, because anyone can bake a pie. Anyone can buy flowers. Anyone can run a bath and put on makeup and laugh in their kitchen. 

But no one else -- no one else in the entire world -- can set the other on fire like this, not in the cooling embrace of a lingering five o’clock bath. A harmonious tangle of contradictions, that’s you and Bucky: flame and water, hard and soft, sweet and sour. 


End file.
